


I Know What You Need

by dizzzylu



Series: Have You Ever Met a Boy Who Turned Your World Into a Playground [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Edging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared's Christmas gift is put to good use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very, very late Christmas fic for obstinatrix, whose prompts were _pumpkin bread, [american] football, blindfold_. Keeping with my Christmas fic theme, I got two out of three. I have to apologize for the lateness. I kept trying to write some Mishalecki fluff, and it just wasn't working for me. Once I finally realized what the problem was, this fic came out within about three days. Thanks to perfumaniac and sparseparsley for the assistance!

Like the overeager puppy everybody always says he is, Jared has been far too excited to introduce Misha to the annual Ackles-Padalecki (and friends) Christmas Eve touch football game. The one where everybody plays, no matter if they're five or fifty-five, rain or shine. Or that one time when it snowed for five minutes. Sure, Misha's not exactly a contact sport kind of guy, but Jared's hoping he'll make an exception just this once.

Misha seems game for it at first, which is a good sign, but Jared forgot to keep him far away from Kristen, the pint-size bulldog who can never drop a grudge. Oh she may look innocent with her wispy blonde hair and big blue eyes, but get her on the field and she's out for blood. Especially if she's on Jensen's team. Which she usually is.

Jared winces at the sight of the two of them, hoping they aren't plotting how to finagle their way onto the same team. Lord have mercy if they are.

He makes his way over to them anyway, just in case, and drapes one long arm over Kristen's shoulders. The weight of it doesn't even begin to stop her impatient bouncing; her ponytail keeps a peppy rhythm, brushing against his arm. "Chill, Kris," Jared says, laughing, and she fake-punches him in the stomach, pulling it at the last minute.

"Get the show on the road, Padalecki!" she barks, hitting him twice more, lightly.

It's rare that someone surprises Misha, but Kristen seems to have done the job. His eyebrows are raised as he looks at Jared from over her head. "Somebody's an eager beaver."

"Nah," says Kristen, scanning the parking lot for the last of the stragglers. "Just blood thirsty!" She shouts the last part over her shoulder, sprinting straight for Jensen, who snags her around the waist and throws her over his shoulder with a roar and a grin.

"I want whatever she's on," Misha murmurs, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath then, pats Jared on the chest, and says, "Right. So, you have a great game. I'm gonna go watch."

Jared stops him with a hand around his wrist before he gets too far. "No way. _Everybody_ has to participate. Even evil masterminds."

"And what, ruin this pretty face? Not likely."

"Misha, please" Jared pleads, quiet. He hadn't realized how much it would mean to him for Misha to want to play, but it does. And, even though it hardly ever works, at least with Misha, Jared pulls out what he hopes is his most pathetic hang-dog look; tilts his head down just so and makes his eyes big and round and shiny. Even his hair cooperates, one thick chunk of it falling into his face.

Misha sighs, squinting at him, and pinches Jared's pouty lower lip between thumb and forefinger. "You know that never works."

Jared sticks his lip out further, deepening the pout, and adds a tremble to it.

"Oh yes," Misha says, voice dry. "That makes all the difference." He sighs, closing one eye to look up at a bleak, grey sky. "I'll make you a deal," he says after a beat. "Let me play referee, and I'll let you open up a gift when we get home."

Jared snorts, flicks the hair out of his eyes. "I'm not _five_ , Misha. I can't be bribed with Christmas gifts."

When Misha looks back at him, there's a heat in his gaze, the way one fine brow arches. He clarifies, "It's a gift of _my_ choosing," and the weight of that settles low in Jared's belly.

He has the glimmer of an idea of what Misha's hinting at (he'd seen a "discreetly labeled" package sitting at the doorstep), but he can't say for sure. He loses the pout anyway, leans in close so his lips graze Misha's ear and says, "Play and give me my present anyway. Then, punish me later."

Jared knows he's won by the slight hitch of Misha's breath, the minute tilt of his body into Jared's. His low, "You asked for it," probably isn't meant to make Jared's stomach flutter.

And yet.

: : :

Jared and Misha's team -- comprised of Jared's family, Misha, and Chad -- ends up losing to Jensen and Kristen's team, much to Kristen's delight. Even the large cut that stretches from her forehead almost to her cheek doesn't dampen her spirits, and Jensen ends up grabbing her around the waist to carry her off the field, her legs waving wildly behind him. Jared chuckles at her until his gaze catches on Misha, muddy and frowning, and he sobers up.

They don't say much on the way back to the house, but the atmosphere isn't tense, either. Misha doesn't seem upset, only focused. The thought of what Misha could be planning simmers through Jared's veins.

When they get home, Misha is all business, pushing Jared toward the bathroom with a clipped, "Rinse off, don't bother with clothes." Jared tries to protest, tries to veer into the kitchen for an extra bottle of water at least, but Misha is firm, his sharp pinch to Jared's ass persuasive.

He ends up soaping up anyway, letting the hot water chase the chill from his bones. In between rinsing the shampoo from his hair and lathering up his chest, his imagination starts to wander. Even though he knows Misha can come up with things ten times wilder than Jared could ever imagine, the images he paints do enough to make the blood thump in his groin. His hand follows the rush, palm skimming over his belly to his cock, his fingers forming a loose, soapy circle. He only allows himself a few strokes, knowing that Misha will want to do most of the work himself.

After Jared dries himself off, Misha proves him right, using one flat palm over Jared's heart to shove him onto the bed. He is damp from his own quick shower, dressed in a thin pair of pajama pants, and he straddles Jared's lap, fingers sinking into Jared's wet hair, and kisses him. His teeth are sharp and his tongue fierce, and he _growls_ when Jared tries to fight back, fists his hand in Jared's hair and pulls to make him let Misha lead. Between them, Jared's cock thickens.

Misha crowds Jared like he thinks Jared is going to retreat, knees nestled close to Jared's hips, inching closer and closer, and his hands on Jared's shoulders, pushing. There is no space for him left to invade, and yet he keeps going. Belatedly, Jared realizes Misha's trying to move him in his own way, and scoots back onto the bed as best he can. He winds up collapsing backward, head just missing the pillows, and he chuckles, hands gripping Misha's waist to keep him from face-planting.

"Relax Misha," says Jared, thumbs dipping under the waistband of Misha's pants. "I'll do whatever you want. Just chill."

Misha frowns down at him, pinches Jared's nipple, and says, "I know you're going to do whatever I want. You're just not doing it fast enough." And then he's straddling Jared's chest and tugging one arm up over his head. Jared tilts his head back to look at the headboard and spots the cuffs Misha has put there in preparation. Probably while Jared was illicitly soaping up in the shower.

Jared grins, tongue poking out between his teeth, and watches Misha fasten one wrist, then the other, palms smoothing over straining muscles once he's finished. They come to a stop at Jared's collarbone, thumbs drumming on the hollow of his throat. Misha seems to be debating something; the wrinkle between his brows is never a good thing.

"What is it?" Jared asks, breaking the silence.

"I can't decide…" He trails off as he climbs off Jared. Jared's gaze follows him to the dresser and back. There's a box in his hands, not large, but not tiny, plain white with a deep blue bow on the top. If Jared's hands were free, he'd be able to life the top and look right in. To tease him, Misha sets it on Jared's stomach, right above his belly button. Jared watches it rise and fall with the rhythm of his breathing. With one hand on his hip and the other scratching at his chin, Misha does the same.

After long, quiet minutes, Jared says "Um, Mish?" and wiggles his fingers. "Please don't tell me you're going to leave that there while you fuck me."

"Don't be stupid," Misha says, frowning at Jared. "I'm trying to decide how best to present the gift."

Jared sighs. They've used the cuffs several times since that first time, but because the instances are so rare (and really, that's a good thing), Jared forgets between one session and the next that what he needs most is patience. Even if his cock is laying thick and heavy against his groin, precome pearling at the tip.

Eventually, Misha sighs and makes his way over to the dresser again and…oh. _Oh_.

The scrap of silk looks fluid in Misha's hands as he runs it through one hand then the other. He lays it flat on the bed and makes absurdly precise folds, smoothing his palms over it each time. The material is still cool against Jared's face, though, when Misha lays it over his eyes, murmurs, "Head up," to Jared , and reaches around to tie it in the back. The cinch of the knot sets off a series of shivers down Jared's spine and reflex has him thrusting his pelvis up, his toes curling. He groans at the lack of friction and the wet drip of precome that tickles his skin.

The movement upsets the box, which Jared had temporarily forgotten about, and it tumbles to the side, the corner of it digging sharply into Jared's rib. Misha picks it up and rattles it, close to Jared's ear. The sound is muffled, by tissue paper, he suspects, but whatever is in there is solid, somewhat heavy.

"Care to take a guess?" Misha asks, thumbing at Jared's lower lip.

He darts his tongue out to wet it, swirls the tip over the pad of Misha's thumb. "Smaller than a bread box," Jared says, a little breathless. His legs shift over the bed.

"Yes," Misha drawls, thumb slipping into Jared's mouth. Jared closes his teeth around it, gentle, and sucks on it until Misha pulls out.

Jared bites his lips and tips his head back, imagining he's looking into Misha's dark eyes. "Bigger than a cock ring." His cock pulses precome at the thought.

"Definitely." Misha sounds far away this time, and then there are nails dragging over one of Jared's ankles.

Jared jerks away at first, surprised, and then stretches back, searching for Misha's hands with his toes. "I give up," he says at last, meaning both the guessing game and his search.

Misha rewards him by gripping one calf and pulling it down and out. There is a quiet slide of cardboard on cardboard, then something wide and cool wrapping around his ankle. Jared's breath hitches and he tries to pull away, but Misha's strong and determined; he has Jared's leg tethered to the footboard between one heartbeat and the next.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Jared moans as Misha straps down the other leg. He thrusts into nothing again, the need for something slick and warm and _there_ stronger than ever. He whimpers at the nothingness, cock aching already with the need for release.

When Misha gets a hold on his leg again, straps it down, snug but comfortable, Jared's mouth is suddenly dry at the thought of the picture he presents; all six foot-five of him stretched impossibly long, his legs quivering under the unfamiliar strain. Even though he knows Misha knows what he's doing, he tests the limits of the ankle cuffs anyway, pulling at each in turn and feeling strangely satisfied that he can only move a few inches in any direction. It helps him to relax.

At least, it relaxes him until the mattress under his legs dips and shifts and warm palms are on his thighs. Warm air gusts over his groin, fingers raking through the hair there, and that's when Misha really starts having fun.

: : :

With his eyes covered, Jared can't be sure of how long he's been strapped to the bed, Misha bringing him to the brink over and over and over again, using everything he has at his disposal. He seems to be in a particularly sadistic mood, leaving the room from time to time, doing god knows what. With what little coherence Jared can muster, he strains to hear anything amiss; the microwave beeping, Misha on the telephone, the front door opening and closing. That he doesn't hear any of the above is small relief.

He can pick out the whisper of Misha's feet on the steps, though, and aims a gust of breath at his own forehead, an attempt to move the damp hair there. The rush of it drowns out Misha's approach, so Jared startles at the first brush of fingers over his skin.

"Thanks," he rasps, voice rough. The ragged scrape of it makes him wince behind his blindfold.

Misha doesn't reply. Not until the mattress next to Jared's side dips and a weight is settling on his chest again. Misha is naked this time, his legs clinging stickily to Jared's sweat-slick skin.

"Do you want to come?" Misha asks, voice sounding close. He trails blunt fingertips along Jared's length, drawing out a hiss between Jared's clenched teeth. His hips twitch involuntarily, craving more pressure. Misha doesn't give him any.

He nods, attempts to reach down to grip Misha's hips with his hands and grunts when he's reminded of the restraints.

"Good," Misha says, inching closer to Jared's face, so that his knees are tucked into Jared's armpits. "I do, too." And then his cock is there, the crown of it sticky-wet and tapping at Jared's lips.

Jared is still trying to regain his balance, arms and legs twitching from everything Misha's done to him so far; the blow job, the excruciatingly thorough fingerfucking, Misha fucking himself in the groove of Jared's hip, making sure to grind against Jared's cock, too. That's when Misha came for the first time, spilling hot and sticky over Jared's stomach and groin. Jared's whole torso feels tight and dry because of it, and he is desperate to come, but instinct has his mouth dropping open and Misha's cock slides right in, the underside following the groove of Jared's tongue until the tip hits the back of his throat. Unable to catalogue the looks passing over Misha's face or the blush that rises from his chest, Jared focuses instead on his taste and texture; the sticky, salt-bitter combination of sweat and precome, the dark tang of it. Each raised ridge, the network of veins.

It even feels hotter to the touch, thicker because Jared can't wrap his fingers around it; because of how turned on Misha is, fucking Jared's mouth with his fingers tangled up in Jared's hair. The other hand must be clinging to the headboard for leverage; Jared can hear the creaking of it, can sense it with the angle of Misha's body. Jared's head is supported by the pillow, almost as if he could go to sleep, and Misha is pumping into him from above, the thick tangle of pubic hair tickling Jared's nose with every inward thrust.

Jared can't help but make it wet and messy, moaning every time Misha hits the back of his throat. He can just barely make out Misha's grunts over the slick sounds his cock is making, the roar of blood in Jared's own ears. He slows his rhythm, pauses at the top of each stroke and waits for Jared to swallow. Behind the blindfold, sweat pricks at the corner of Jared's eyes, mixing with the tears that threaten to form. Jared tries to concentrate, to get some air in through his nose, but it's not enough. If he could see, he's sure the edges would be fuzzy right about now.

But he can still hear and, above him, Misha's getting filthier and filthier with his moans. Telling Jared how amazing he is, how good his mouth feels, how pretty his lips look all slick and swollen and pink. Jared's cock gives a painful throb at the idea of it; Jared all stretched out on the bed, sheened in sweat, precome smeared all over his belly. He's harder than he's ever been, legs trembling under the strain, desperate for leverage so he can thrust into something. But there's nothing, no leverage and certainly not Misha's ass, hot and slick and gripping him fiercely. What he has now is Misha using Jared for his own pleasure, holding his head at just the right angle to get in as far as possible so that when he comes, it hits the back of Jared's throat in hot, sticky spurts.

Which he does a moment later, Jared stretching his tongue long so Misha can slide in that last little inch. Misha gasps in surprise, freezing, and is reduced to short thrusts as he comes, holding Jared's head in place with a fist in his hair. Jared sort of loses track of things then; from the ache in his jaw to the come he can't swallow; can only focus on the light, floaty feeling, the tingle in his fingers and toes. He doesn't even register Misha pulling out and smearing the head of his cock over Jared lips and chin until he says, quiet and concerned, "Breathe, baby. Breathe."

Jared does, smiling.

: : :

After that, Misha knows enough to bring Jared some water to help him recover. He doesn't release the wrist cuffs, but he's careful about pouring tiny amounts into Jared's slack mouth. It takes longer than it should, but Jared is grateful for his care. Especially when Misha accidentally-on-purpose lets some of the water trickle over Jared's chin and down his neck. It doesn't do much to relieve his heated skin, but it feels amazing anyway.

"You good?" Misha asks, voice low, after several long, quiet moments. He's still sitting on the bed next to Jared's hip, one hand planted on the mattress just underneath Jared's arm.

A nod is about all Jared can muster, between the lack of blood, the lack of air, and the excruciating need to come. He tilts into Misha with his hips, as much as he can, and rolls his head until he thinks he's looking at about where Misha's head is and says, "Misha, I need-- You gotta let me-- _Please_." The words are stuttered, weak.

Misha shushes him, pushes a hand through Jared's hair to comb it out. "Almost there, Jared. You are doing so, _so_ well." Jared pushes into the touch, makes a small sad sound when it moves away. Whimpers even louder when that same hand (Jared assumes) reaches down and light fingers circles the head of his cock.

"Almost there," Misha repeats, getting up from the bed. Absently, Jared can hear him crossing the room, the rattle of the drawer pull on the dresser, then the drawer sliding shut again. Seconds later and much closer to the bed, there's the click of the lube bottle. It makes a wet, flatulent sound as Misha squeezes it, and Jared laughs because he is slightly giddy and also, sometimes, five. The slick sounds Misha makes while preparing his cock don't help either. But his weight is settling on the bed, between Jared's legs, which means relief is coming soon, and Jared sighs.

Warm, dry thumbs spread him open, exposing his hole. Jared is twitchy, anxious, until Misha slides two fingers in with no resistance; Jared imagines he's still lubed up and lose from the fingerfucking he endured not all that long ago (or possibly ages ago, Jared isn't sure anymore). Misha pulls out with a slick, wet pop, and Jared misses the fullness already, even though it wasn't anywhere near enough.

But then Misha is there again, the blunt head of his cock stretching Jared open just that little bit further, cool and slick and-- _fake_?

Jared bucks, as much as he can, which forces the dildo further in. He chokes on a moan, the sound of it thick in his own ears, and Misha slowly, carefully, slides it all the way in until the wide, cool base is flush against his skin. Despite the gentle, insistent pressure on his prostate, his relief at finally being filled, Jared still notices Misha crawling down from the bed, and, on instinct, he fights against the ankle cuffs to wrap his legs around Misha's waist and keep him there. It's no use, though. Misha's gone and Jared thinks he might know what's coming, and his whole body burns with the thought of it.

That still doesn't stop his whimper, though, as Misha straddles his hips, wraps tight fingers around the base of Jared's cock and lowers himself onto Jared inch by searing inch. Jared tries several times to wet his lips, but his mouth is dry, despite the water Misha just gave him, and there's a lump in his throat that seems impossible to swallow around. "If you wa- _ah_ -ant me to la- _oh shit_ -ast," he gets out, in between Misha making tiny circles with his hips until he's flush with Jared's pelvis, "You'd better go - fuck, _fuck_ \- slow. Goddamn, _Misha_."

"Oh, you'll last," Misha says, low and dirty. Jared isn't so sure. Misha hasn't prepared himself much more than a finger, maybe two. So he's not only tight, but drier than they usually like it, and his grip on Jared's cock is astounding, desperate and hot. Jared clenches his teeth as Misha starts to ride him slow and careful.

Jared's need to plant his feet flat on the bed and thrust into Misha is overwhelming, but the cuffs don't allow him much more than a few inches leeway in any direction. He has to take what he can get, listening close for the wet slap of skin-on-skin, Misha's gravely grunts that mean Jared is hitting his mark.

He doesn't get either, though. What he gets is Misha's irregular rhythm and the dildo nudging at his prostate every time Misha sinks down. To stave off his orgasm, Jared tries to think of the least arousing things possible -- baseball stats, his high school gym teacher, Tony Romo in drag. None of it works, especially when his ears pick up a slick, squelching noise. They're followed by a smattering of cool, wet drips on his stomach and one hand braced on his thigh. The picture quickly materializes itself behind the blindfold: Misha, skin flushed, damp hair framing his face, fucking into his slick, tight fist every time he pulls off of Jared.

Jared lets out a low groan as the orgasm coils, dark and promising, at the base of his spine. He's torn between the desperate concentration needed to hold it in and the way the sounds and smells and touches are trying to drown him completely. For a split second, he thinks he may have won the battle, if only temporarily, by focusing on the sharp edges of Misha's nails digging into his leg, but they're there and gone, scraping along the inside of his thigh when Misha reaches down between Jared's legs. His fist bumps against the dildo, which makes Jared's cock fatten (if that's even possible anymore) inside Misha, and then-- _oh, Jesus_.

Jared swears he can feel the vibrations from his ass down to his toes, through his fingers into the cuffs, the goddamn bed itself. He chokes out Misha's name, barely catches the self-satisfied chuckle, and stretches impossibly long; hands gripping the headboard, toes pointed toward the footboard. It's the only way Jared can hang on the way Misha wants him to, to physically _hang on_ to something and hope he can ride it out.

Of course, Misha's the one doing the actual riding, and he has barely increased his rhythm, content to keep things slow and casual, despite Jared's needy, desperate pleading. His hands are on Jared's stomach, so he assumes Misha is sitting straight up, which means that he probably isn't getting much out of it at all. Sadistic bastard.

Jared is about to fire a stream of stuttered obscenities at him, but then there's a warm gust of breath over his face, and the mattress dips just above his shoulder. Against his stomach, Misha's cock is a hot, hard ridge, sliding easily through the mess of come and sweat. Jared's high-pitched keening sounds thready to his own ears and is underlined by Misha's deeper, chuckling groans.

"You ready?" Misha asks, teeth catching on Jared's chin. He squeezes tight around Jared's cock, drops his pelvis a fraction of an inch closer and spits out a curse as he finally finds his prostate. His grip on Jared is searing, tight and desperate, and Jared doesn't realize he's saying anything until Misha says, "You can, Jared. C'mon." Only then does Jared realize he himself is chanting, _Ican'tIcan'tIcan't_.

Misha pulls down the blindfold, now soaked with sweat, and his fingers spear through Jared's hair. Jared's eyes are still tightly shut, though, and all he can feel is the weight of the silk on his neck, everything in his body tensing up, preparing for release.

"Come _on_ ," Misha grunts again, grinding down on Jared's cock. His, "just let go," is quieter, almost gentle, but it's the fingernails scraping his scalp that does it, the sharp line of them dragging down his nape.

It's strange, the sounds Jared manages to focus on; the creaking headboard and the insistent buzz of the vibrator, sound too loud in his ears, but Misha's breathing, Jared's own choked gasping sound faint, barely there. The orgasm seems to last too long and yet not long enough, Jared pulsing hot and thick and sticky. With Jared strapped down, Misha has to do most of the work, but Jared's come helps to ease the way, making Misha slick and hot instead of tight and hot.

Jared comes down in stages; his body relaxing, his cock softening, his breathing and heart rate returning to normal. Misha stays where he is, even though Jared isn't hard anymore, and Jared belatedly registers the wet sounds of Misha's hand stripping his own cock. Jared still has the vibrator in his ass, buzzing away, and he wonders, vaguely, if Misha can feel the muted vibrations of it, if that's what's helping him get through his third orgasm. The idea of it makes him chuckle for no reason.

He watches Misha through slitted eyes, grateful that there aren't any lights on to blind him. Misha's teeth dig into his lip, turning the skin white, and he braces his free hand on Jared's thigh, arching back so that when he finally orgasms, his come lands on Jared's chest and chin, a few stray drops even reaching his lips. Jared licks it away, patient, and waits as Misha slumps forward, face tucked into the sweaty crook of Jared's neck, and groans.

"Uh, Misha?" Jared says after awhile, wiggling his torso to get Misha's attention. Jared's shoulders and hips are shot, sore and throbbing, and he feels utterly disgusting. Sated, sure, but still disgusting. The sheets will have to be changed, of course, and he definitely could use another shower, but first he needs to get Misha to cooperate. And he's not entirely sure if Misha's done yet. And there's still the matter of the running vibrator to be dealt with.

Misha mutters something against Jared's skin, scrapes there with his teeth, and sighs again, too hot for Jared to find at all comfortable. He squirms again, trying to buck to startle Misha, but there's nowhere to go. As a last resort, he tests the strength of one of the spindles on the bed, hoping there might be a weak point he can exploit but there isn't. Of course there isn't. Misha would see to it that there wasn't.

Misha stirs anyway, pulling his knees in from their sprawl so he can sit up. He, at least, looks as messy as Jared feels, since he collapsed in their combined mess. Jared can't work out why his hair is so wild, though. He decides it must be a Misha thing.

He manages to knee walk up the length of Jared's body, his cock glistening with lube, so he can reach the cuffs, and helps Jared to get the feeling back by rubbing first one arm then the other between his palms.

Relived though Jared may be, it feels strange to have his arms free and limp at his sides. He turns to look at the clock on the nightstand and is surprised to find that only a couple of hours have passed since the football game. His gaze then turns to the windows. The blinds are closed, but there is still weak, grey light around the edges. At least he hasn't missed anything other than rain, rain, and more rain.

His legs feel like dead weights when Misha releases them and then, finally, turns the vibrator off and pulls it out. He brings it into the bathroom and returns with a cool wet washcloth, using it to dab at Jared's face first, then chest, and finally his groin. Jared wants to say something about not being a baby and needing to be taken care of, but his tongue feels thick and clumsy and dry. He manages to croak out the word "water," and Misha disappears through the bedroom door to return from with two bottles of it; the huge ones Jared gulps down after a good run.

"Can you sit up?" Misha asks. Jared shoots him a dirty look, but it turns out he is still a little uncoordinated, so Misha helps him sit up enough to lean against a pile of pillows. Misha climbs onto the bed after and straddles Jared's thighs. "You good?"

Jared nods, paying careful attention to not drink the water too fast, even though he wants to. Every part of his body aches, but he feels good. Great, even, and he smiles at Misha, rubs a thumb over his kneecap. "That was amazing."

Misha quirks an eyebrow. "But let's not do it again?"

"No, no," Jared murmurs into the bottle. "We'll do it again. But maybe next time, _you_ can be the one strapped to the bed."

Eyes sparkling, Misha chuckles. "Wanna bet?"

Jared pretends to think on it, then grins and says, "Yeah. I think I do."


End file.
